Ipsa Scientia Potestas Est
by The Boy with a Pen
Summary: Harry's life could be taking a turn for the better after some mysterious advice from a doctor.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

In the silence and the darkness of the cupboard, young Harry Potter lies with his eyes closed. Not that he really has much of a choice, Uncle Vernon and his meaty fist was introduced to his eye today. Keeping both closed was purely convenient to his swollen eyelid. This was the first time in seven years that Vernon left a mark on him and it hurt more than anything Harry had ever felt in the world. Despite the neglect and scorn, the Dursleys never hit him. Sure they shook him around a little bit and Dudley and his friends socked him every once in a while, but Harry always had hope that they would love him one day. Now, with those hopes completely dashed, Harry drew in to his shell. For the first time he felt completely alone in the world.

When he woke up the next morning, Vernon didn't speak to him or look at him. When Harry placed the large man's morning cup of coffee on the table, Vernon only let out a grunt of acknowledgement and didn't look up from his morning paper. After breakfast was served, devoured, and promptly cleaned up, Harry began his morning chores. All of the clothes from the previous day were fished out of their respective wash bins (and Dudley's floor) and taken to the mud room. Harry started a load of his relatives' clothing, as he was not allowed to wash his own clothes with theirs to avoid spreading his "freakishness" onto the rest of the family, and went outside to mow the lawn. He had to make sure the grass was trimmed to perfection and the fence was repainted before his wardens returned from Saturday morning mass. The seven-year-old's muscles strained from the work, but they were used to being torn up and rebuilt over night. Harry pushed his untamable hair out of his green eyes and licked his lips with thirst, tasting the salty sweat that collected under his nose. If the neighbors had been watching the Dursley house hold, they would've seen a raven haired blur rushing around the lawn. A child of that size was moving unnaturally fast and one Arabella Figg was just waking up from her afternoon nap, paying no attention to her mission across the street.

The Dursleys returned and brought guests, as per usual, for Harry to wait on. Company arrived to cucumber sandwiches and biscuits and tea neatly set out on the coffee table that occupied the living space. Petunia made small pointless chatter with a short, stout man with a thin, blond mustache. Harry didn't like how the man looked, he reminded him of Vernon. Harry got very good at spotting men with a temper. Actually, Harry was very good at spotting anything really. His usual montra of "children are meant to be seen not heard, but I am not a child," spoke leaps and bounds to the quiet observant boy that was almost invisible to the guests. If not for his piercing green eyes, he would've gone completely invisible.

A man with brown bushy hair and his wife sat down on the couch and looked quite uncomfortable with the current conversation and were quiet just like Harry. He cocked his head to the side and squinted a bit at the couple, wondering what they were like. Perhaps they have children, maybe a daughter who plays cricket after school and draws pretty pictures they hang on the fridge at home. Most of Dudley's drawings were comprised of red crayons to picture Harry in some perilous situation. One of Vernon's favorites was titled: The Freak versus the Lawn Trimmer. Quite hilarious. Harry was jerked out of his brooding when he realized there was a pair of chocolate brown eyes staring back into his green ones. He stumbled back in surprise and knocked into the table, causing the tray with Petunia's fine china to smash into the floor. Vernon was up without pause, "Boy! Look what you've done now!"

His face began to take a light shade of purple as his brow furrowed into an angry line. Uh oh. Harry knew this wouldn't end well; not well at all. He bent down to pick up one of the shards of glass. The shard pierced his skin and a small droplet of his blood pooled on his finger. But Harry didn't hesitate and hoped none of the guests noticed; then again, when did anything go right for the scrawny orphan? The brown haired man quickly lifted off the couch and knelt to help Harry with the mess. He produced a handkerchief from his jacket and handed it to Harry. He looked at the cloth for a moment before cautiously taking it from him with a small smile in thanks.

"Oh don't fuss over him, doctor, he is quite clumsy!" Petunia pinched his cheek and gave him a smile that made Harry want to vomit. "He'll get this mess right cleaned up."

"Right," spoke the brown haired man, the doctor. "Well, the missus and I must be going. Our little bundle of joy must be tearing apart the house right now!" Mrs. Doctor suppressed a giggle and they made for the door.

"Excuse me, sir," Harry spoke softly, barely above a whisper. "You left your kerchief."

"Oh that's quite alright, son. If you don't mind me asking, what are you called?" 'Freak' was on the tip of his tongue, however he remembered that it would be unwise to say so much around present company.

"Harold, sir." The doctor only smiled at him. It reached his eyes and left little crinkles in the corners, Vernon never smiled like that at anyone. Right then, Harry decided he liked Mr. Doctor very much.

"Well, Harold, you look like you will grow up to be a strapping young lad." He bent closer to Harry to whisper in his ear. "Don't let your uncle treat you that way. Remember something a wise old man said: ipsa scientia potestas est."

Harry didn't even notice Mr. Doctor leave. He didn't notice his aunt yelling at him. Or his uncle's belt striking him. Or his frail body hitting the floor of the cupboard and the door slamming shut and locking behind him. And he especially didn't notice his hands trace the words carved into his floor: IPSA SCIENTIA POTESTAS EST.

oOo

Harry was stumped, completely and totally stupefied. Ipsa scientia potestas est, it obviously wasn't English but that didn't narrow it down much. He had no education in any language other than English so the small child, now 8 years old, was sitting in his small cupboard pounding his head in frustration. All of his issues in life had answers. When a plant was wilting in the garden, he watered it. When Vernon had a headache, Harry slipped some aspirins in his meal to keep him from taking his pain out on him. But there was absolutely no way he could find out what the words meant until it hit him.

Mr. Doctor mentioned that a 'wise old man' said the phrase before him. And unless it was a pathetic dad joke (which might be the straw to break the camel's back for Harry's mental health), some historical figure must have said it first and been recorded! Harry almost gasped in joy at his own cleverness until he remembered that the Dursleys were fast asleep from the sound of Vernon's snoring.

Suddenly, a soft crack filled the air and was followed by a shimmering whoosh. Harry opened his cupboard and stepped softly out to peek through the front window at the strange scene before him. Arabella Figg, the crazy cat lady from across the street, was talking with an old man in a strange bathrobe and his cat. The picture in front of him was so bizarre that he simply shook his head to clear it and lumbered back to his small cupboard to sleep. All the street lamps were so dark that he assumed it to be a trick of the light. No one heard the small snap that left the street empty. No one saw the man let the light back into the lamps. Privet Drive was as silent as the grave.

Harry was walking home the next day from the park when he strayed from his path. The library wasn't necessarily something that attracted him. In fact, he pushed it away after he lost food privileges for three days for beating Dudley's scores. But his heart pounded as he climbed the stone steps to the ancient building. He steeled himself and imagined Mr. Doctor behind him with his hand on his shoulder. He whispered that illustrious phrase to himself as he climbed each step. "Ipsa." One. "Scienta." Two. "Potestas." Three. "Este." He walked toward two large oak doors and opened with a creak. He was treated by the smell of yellowing paper and spilt coffee. It had been so long since Harry had experienced such a wonderful sent that he felt light headed.

"Are you looking for anything specific, dear?" A middle aged woman with horn rimmed glasses peered at him with frosty blue eyes. Harry's eyes quickly took in everything he could about her before he opened his mouth. She had a nicotine stain on her index finger an irregular mark on her third finger on her left hand.

 _Divorced,_ Harry noted. _Or a widow. And definitely a smoker._

"Yes ma'am," Harry meekly. "I'm having trouble finding a translation to a phrase I read somewhere."

"Oh of course! You've come to the right place." She quickly shuffled towards the isles and isles of books that called towards Harry.

"What exactly is the phrase needed to be translated?"

Harry repeated the words that he mumbled while he slept and did chores, words that he traced on the table cloth while he watched his barnyard looking family dig in to his perfectly crafted meal. Words that made him feel safe and strong. As he spoke, the librarian's eyes lit up behind her frames.

"My goodness I know that one by heart!" She cleared her throat and whispered as if it was the most important secret in the world: "Knowledge itself is power."

Harry grinned at the discovery. A sudden urge to consume every book in that library came over him. He decided to spend the rest of the day there and returned home to find his uncle on the front porch with a half-drank bottle of whiskey clutched in his meaty fist. A cloud of dread fell over Harry as he accepted what was coming. Vernon braced himself against the railing and gave a loud grunt, as if holding himself up took all of his strength.

"C'mere, boy!" he slurred. "Where th' hell've you been?"

Harry shifted from side to side and spoke softly, "The library, sir."

Vernon's face turned a shade of dark purple and he grabbed Harry by the raven mess on his head and drug him into the house. Harry cried out in surprise and Vernon swung his fist to catch Harry in the ribs. He groaned from the pain.

"Will you shut up, boy?! Th' neighbors'll hear ya!"

Harry was left face down on the carpet where guests wiped their feet before entering. The taste of dirt and sand made him remember that he forgot his duties before going to the library. He cursed himself for such an idiotic move. Whatever Vernon decided to do, he most certainly deserved for getting caught making such a stupid mistake. There was the sound of a metal buckle being undone. _Thwap thwap thwap!_ The leather was yanked out of Vernon's belt loops. Harry's eyes were already watering as he squeezed them tight and braced himself for what was coming.

There was a whoosh as the belt buckle came down on Harry. Since Vernon was drunk and it was a wild swing, the metal lashed the nape of his neck. Harry immediately arched his back and let out a silent scream of agony. He bit his tongue to keep from crying and the metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth. He breathed heavily as Vernon continued for what felt like hours. Vernon was covered in sweat and stopped, completely exhausted.

"You'll fin'sh yur chores an' we won' hear a peep," he mumbled. "Un'rstand?"

Harry's teeth were gritted and his eyes full of pain as he nodded in understanding. This was his fault. If only he had been patient and waiting until he finished, he could've gone to the library and not had to suffer Vernon's belt. He staggered to his cupboard and rested for a minute and slid a book he has swiped out of his trousers. A book on Latin. He smiled as he turned one page after another, devouring the text and forgetting about Vernon and that damned belt.

oOo

The summer holiday arrived soon enough and the Dursleys were rarely home at all. This sparked some joy in Harry's little heart at the prospect of returning to the library. Every day after Vernon went to work and Petunia took her afternoon nap that always ended at four o'clock sharp, Harry escaped his suburban prison. He dashed to the library as fast as his little feet could carry him. His Latin book could only take him so far in his studies since it was the size of a pocket thesaurus. He clambered up the steps to the red, stone building and inhaled the scent of ageing paper and stale nicotine. He followed the same path he took to find his latin pocketbook: all the way to the basement and to the back wall. The library was eerily quiet this day, not many people visited such a place on a dreary Tuesday during holiday; so Harry was left to the comfort of his fingers stroking the rough pages of old texts written in such a way that Harry's head hurt. He didn't know how much time had passed before he found himself bored. It couldn't have been too long, for he had only gotten half way through his current book. His head was swimming and his stomach ached as if he had just been squeezed through a garbage disposal. He heaved a great sigh and retreated back to the shelves for another book.

" _The Aeneid_ ," He muttered to himself as he stroked his index finger across the spines. " _The Twelve Caesars, XII usus sanguinis Draco scriptor, Hello There Harry_ -wha?!"

Impossible. Harry did a take and then stared at the gold letters that weaved across the page in beautiful calligraphy. No, this is unnatural, but Harry only felt excitement. He reached out to touch the book but it delved deep into the shelf, as if the books made lush, tall grass for it to hide in. Harry was almost in a trance as he pushed his body into the bookshelf. He felt books brush past his face as he was spit out onto a hardwood floor. He slowly looked up and pushed his wireframes up on his nose. A frail old man in a dress- no a robe- huddled over a lectern was staring at him. He took a shaky breath in before speaking in barely a whisper:

"Hello, Harold. You are a very tough one to find."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Harry's hands were white-knuckled against the table he sat at as he looked around the room. There were no windows or doors he could see. The bookshelf behind him served no more purpose than being a bookshelf. Harry had been completely embarrassed to have rushed back into the bookshelf only to knock it over and splay the books all over the floor. The man just laughed, and Harry almost laughed along with him. Almost. He remembered that Vernon had a habit of laughing before he struck Harry with his meaty fists. Harry settled for smiling shyly and accepting the offer for tea. The man gave Harry a cup with some milk and then piled several spoonfuls of sugar into his own. He stirred the sludge of sugar and sipped daintily before clearing his throat to speak.

"Ah, that's better!" the man said in a much younger voice than before. "Sweets do the body well. Now where was I?" His brow furrowed as he concentrated.

"Sorry to interrupt," Harry interjected. "But who are you?" The man's face lit up.

"Oh yes! How rude of me." He stood out of his chair and gave a flamboyant bow. "My name is Nicola Flamel." He winked as he finished as if expecting grandiose applause. None came. The man brought his hands to his hips in a frustrated expression.

"Sir-" Harry started. But the man held up his hand in defeat.

"Harry, may I call you 'Harry?'" Harry nodded at the strange man. "Harry, do you know who you are?" Harry's brow furrowed as he found himself as frustrated as Mr Flamel.

"What sort of question is that?" Harry bursted out. "Of course I do, I'm Harold Potter." Flamel only shook his head sadly.

"I know that, my boy," Flamel spoke softly. "But do you know _what_ you are?" Now Harry was stumped. Flamel knew his name so he must know what Harry was as well.

"I feel like this is a trick question, sir." Flamel only stared at Harry- no he was staring past him. Harry turned around as Flamel lifted a small stick in the air and twisted it with a movement that could only be described as a 'swish' and a 'flick' to the untrained eye. He whispered under his breath, and Harry watched the books all glide back on to the shelf. It was amazing. It was breathtaking, one could feel the energy sparking in the air as Flamel performed something that Harry could only describe as. . .

"Magic," Flamel spoke as he looked at Harry. Harry looked back with a childlike wonder and amazement in his eyes that brought youth back to Flamel's old bones. "It flows through us, Harry. It is a force of wonder that only few can understand."

"You said 'us,' sir?"

"Yes, I must confess, I expected this to go a bit differently. But you, Harold Potter, are a wizard."

oOo

Harry's summer routine became obsessed with magic. He would go to the library every day to watch Flamel perform miracles that he only heard about on Sundays right before his eyes. Before he knew it, summer was coming to a close and he was making great revelations. Flamel gave him a stick to practice 'wand waving' (if there was a proper term for it, Harry didn't know) and they brewed potions together. Apparently there were many more potions they couldn't brew since the summer star patterns affected their magic and how it was channeled into the cauldron. His light reading on magical creatures left him starved to meet a unicorn and he found out about as school called Hogwarts. Such a strange name could only fit a school that taught wizards how to hone their magical fluency- a term Flamel used frequently. As Harry walked into his secret classroom in the library, he felt something would be different about today.

Flamel was at his usual place behind the lectern and the single desk for Harry was now a comfy armchair. _That's odd. . ._ thought Harry. He shrugged and slumped down inside his chair and removed his scroll he'd been practicing writing on. Presentable writing with a quill pen was mandatory at Hogwarts and he was already pretty good, if not for his horrible luck with ink puddles. Flamel stopped his paper shuffling.

"No, Harry. You won't need any notes today." Flamel's mood was somber and strange to Harry. "Today is a history lesson, and I promise you'll remember everything I tell you. Within Hogwarts resides a great man named Albus Dumbledore, who is considered to be the greatest wizard next to Merlin. But before he was the Headmaster of Hogwarts School, he was a transfiguration professor. And during his tenure as a professor, he met a boy named Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle was also a great wizard, but first I must tell you about a man named Salazar Slytherin. . ."

Harry was frozen in his chair as he tried to process the deep seated bigotry and hatred that consumed much of the Wizarding World and how a man named Tom murdered his parents in cold blood. He wasn't sad, he wasn't angry. He just. . . wasn't. Now one must understand that an emotionally stunted nine year-old boy can't quite comprehend the magnitude of his fame as the lone survivor of the killing curse. And he certainly can't understand why his relatives would lie to him about how his parents died or why no one wanted to find him, even though he was 'famous'. The rest of the day was robotic. Flamel told him it was his last lesson for a while. Somehow that felt just as sour as the rest of what Harry felt about his newfound knowledge. He was late coming back home, and he knew that he would feel the repercussions of his sloppiness. The door was already open for him. He held his practice stick close to his chest as he sobbed bitterly before his uncle even yelled at him.

Petunia and Vernon were floored at what they saw before them. Harry never showed so much as a whimper when they hit him. He never shook with sobs while they berated him for something he couldn't have understood. But now Harry was breaking down. He clenched his stick in his fist and he spoke. It was very quiet and even but at the same time dangerous and cold.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Vernon was sweating and Petunia blanched white. They recognized the look Harry had in his eyes and the way he held the stick that looked so much like a wand. Everything he did reminded them of Lily Potter. The soft, powerful glow behind their green eyes were the same, you never noticed it until they got angry.

"Wha-what? Didn't tell you what, boy?" Vernon stammered at the boy- no, _wizard_ he saw in front of him.

"My mother," Harry said. "She loved me. My father, he died for me. My magic, it protected me. The world, it idolized me. All of the good things I would have had, you stole from me. You lied to me."

In a burst of emotion, Harry jabbed his 'wand' forward and jerked it into a twist before slicing the air in front of him as he cried with agony. Harry had never hated someone before, and he didn't think he was capable of doing it either. So the thing that he felt towards the Dursleys must have been the closest thing to hate he could muster. A great wind came from the pale, grey sky and ripped the roof of the house off of its body. Lightning flashed and thunder shuttered the house's foundations with a burst of magic that should've been impossible for someone of Harry's ability. But whatever gods or beings that are Magick must have blessed Harry that day. But all blessings come with a curse. The stick that Harry had been using was not only a real wand, but a powerful one. One wand that Harry had not been able to use yet suddenly sprung to life to create Harry's emotional thunderstorm in his own reality.

But now the wand was lost. Having so much raw, unshaped magic pushed through it caused the wand to burst into tiny pieces. And now the wand dwells in fragments throughout Harry's broken mangled hands. And while four people lay trapped under a collapsed house, waiting for rescue, a silver miniature windmill started to chime in Scotland under the attention of one Albus Dumbledore.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Fuzziness in his own head was the first thing Harry noticed when he woke up. He tried to pull himself off his bed but— wait did he say bed? Harry never had a bed. He tried to grasp around the room in a panic. He couldn't move his hands. Finally he opened his eyes, and saw before him a blurry room. He tried to blink what he thought was sleep out of his eyes, but he could see what he thought were his glasses on the bedside stand. And what he could clearly see were his hands bound up and suspended before him. He could hear the constant beep of what he assumed to be a heart monitor. God his hands itch with all the fire in the world. If he didn't know better he would think they were burning. He must have done something to anger his uncle to get a trip to the hospital. Harry prayed that whatever damage wasn't permanent.

Harry heard a knock at the door before it swung open. A fuzzy man in a lab coat rushed forward.

"Hello, Harold," said the man with a very light accent. "I'm Doctor Byrne, how are you feeling?"

"I-I," Harry croaked. His voice felt like it was cracked. "I would like my glasses please, sir."

The doctor slid Harry's glasses on his face. "I would like to let you know about what happened to you, Harry. You suffered severe burns on your hands and sustained some nerve damage from a freak lightning sto—"

"Don't!" Harry interrupted. "Don't say that word. Freak is such an awful word."

The doctor gave him a glance before continuing: "The storm struck your house, and apparently you, which has left your relatives in a shape worse for wear."

"Ah," Harry whispered. "I see."

Of course Harry has realized the storm was no coincidence. He didn't quite remember what happened, but he was sure magic happened that night. The doctor shook him from his thoughts.

"Harry. Harry, you've been asleep for seven days." Harry was a little concerned. His bandages were starting to get really hot. He couldn't tell if it was the bandages were heating up his hands or vice versa. And something about the number seven struck a chord within Harry's mind. Flamel said seven was an important symbol in some special rituals and rites but beyond that. . .

"We have a car out front to take you home." Harry was barely listening to the doctor at this point. He just really wanted to get the stupid, hot itchy bandages off his hands. 'I wouldn't even care if they caught fire just get them off me!' thought our protagonist. Suddenly the smell of smoke filled the room and the bandages began to blacken and flake off. Harry shook the ashes of the now barbecued wraps off his hands in astonishment as the doctor watched slack jawed. Harry quickly dashed out of the room and down a flight of stairs before he realized he had no idea where he was going.

He stopped by an old nurse with a strict face to ask for directions. "Oh the front door is that way, Harry." Her accent was much thicker than Doctor Byrne and very nice to listen to, but Harry was in a hurry and quickly made his way to the car to take him back to his relatives.

oOo

The first thing Harry noticed was Vernon's car was gone. Perhaps Harry was lucky and didn't have to suffer his wrath until tonight. He walked up the steps— no, not steps, ramp?— and made his way to the living room. The living room had a large hole in the ceiling that reached all the way to the sky, if not for the tarp that covered it from the element. And he was not prepared for what he found sitting in front of the telly. Vernon Dursley, the man who left scars, the man who fired good working men, the man who haunted Harry with his scowl, was crippled. He sat slumped in a wheelchair. His eyes were not quite seeing the program that was playing, as if ghosts were dancing behind his eyelids.

Harry was stunned. He just stood there. He said nothing. What would he say? His own demon, his abuser, was vanquished. And Harry was the one to do it. He finally defeated Vernon Dursley. He dreamt of being a knight striking down the evil ogre named Vernon ever since he was a young boy. And riding away in the sunset to find adventure and wonders, he would finally be free. And now he was.

"Vernon, I'm— I'm leaving," Harry said. "You lost. You hurt me and made feel less than I really was. Well you can't hurt me anymore. I'm a wizard. I'm going to be the next Albus Dumbledore. And— and I'm sorry I hurt you."

Harry didn't know why he had tears running out of his eyes. Did he really feel bad for this man? Yes? No? He didn't know. But Harry knew he didn't want to hurt anyone else like he hurt his uncle ever again.

"I probably won't see you again Uncle Vernon. I wish you the best." And with that, Harry turned on his heels and left the prison he once knew as the 'Dursley Residence.' He walked out into a world that was bigger than he could fathom with nothing but the clothes on his back and a handkerchief in his pocket with a 'G' embroidered that marked the beginning of his journey as a wizard.

He took to the sidewalk that led out to the park he used to frequent before Dudley had begun his 'Harry hunting' as he called it. Harry sat down on a lone swing and, for the first time, examined his hands. There wasn't anything necessarily unnatural about them or their shape. They were still red and raw looking. Small knicks that scarred over were connected by fine lightning that zig-zagged across his skin. Harry was somber as he reached up and brushed his bangs off his forehead to reveal his scar. Flamel told him it was an icon in the wizarding world, that it represented the defeat of a great evil that plagued wizarding culture. But Flamel said there was more work to do. People still believed in the man that gave Harry his scar; the man who killed his mother and father, and the man who almost took the wizarding world from Harry. He wasn't alive anymore, but his ideal were. However, Harry's only concern was finding a place to sleep, and the park bench didn't seem so inviting. So it was off to the library.

Harry arrived and nodded to the cat that seemed to lurk around the entrance for the past week. He didn't know why he did it, but sometimes he swore the cat nodded back at him. He pulled on the handles of the large wooden doors and they gave a strange click as they opened. How peculiar, he thought. He simply shrugged off the thought as he made his way down to the basement and stood in front of the book case that he spent most of the summer in. He reached out his left hand and pushed on the books. The met the back wall with a thud and didn't move any farther. Harry hung his head and sighed before he leaned against the texts and fell asleep.

Now, Harry's night wasn't strange because he was dreaming, it was quite on the contrary, he had many dreams. Tonight was different because he dreamt of some many things he didn't understand. A cold, harsh laugh, a bright green light, a dragon, I will always be with you, Harry, a woman screaming, and then blackness. Perhaps 'blackness' is the wrong word to use; it was the absence and presence of everything and nothing simultaneously, which is a tough concept for any mortal mind to comprehend, let alone a nine year-old wizard. Harry shook awake in a cold sweat. Light was streaming in from the small, barred windows of the basement. Harry drank in the bright sun shining on his morning and stretched out on the floor similar to a cat after a long nap. He turned around to leave but found himself face to face with a very cross looking librarian.

"Well, young man, do you want to tell me what possessed you to break into the library this morning? Before I call the authorities?" Harry didn't know what to say, he didn't break in.

"I'm sorry ma'am," Harry said quietly. "But I came in last night after close. The door was unlocked." The woman looked flustered.

"That's simply improbab--" She stopped and looked at Harry. He looked quite a mess and his clothes were wrinkled from a restless night of sleeping on a wood floor. There were bags under his eyes and his glasses were crooked on his nose. The normal bright green eyes were heavy with sleep and his hair was a nest. "Did you say 'last night?'"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You mean to say you slept here? On the floor?" Harry's attention snapped to his shoes. This was embarrassing. He certainly didn't expect anyone to find him in the morning, but he should have. He racked his brain to think of something to say. Maybe he was an orphan or the son of a homeless man who couldn't care for him. He had to say something.

"Yes, I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Well, what about your parents?"

"My parents are dead." Harry decided that honesty was the best policy according to his situation. "They have been for years. I've been in the area, but the place I have been staying at is. . . uninhabitable." He wasn't necessarily lying to the woman, but he still felt bad for her. She didn't know that there was an entire population of people with the power to manipulate their reality living amongst her. She didn't realize that one was standing right in front of her right at that moment. Her cat like eyes peered at him over black, horn-rimmed glasses. The wrinkles of her forehead softened as she took in Harry's messy appearance.

"So you have no place to go? How terrible and unfortunate." She announced. "We'll its official. You will live with me until I can find any permanent solution. We can't have you breaking in to anywhere else on my watch."

Harry was gobsmacked to say the least. First of all, he didn't know this strange woman. He was almost sure he had never seen her before, and she was the librarian. To be fair, the other one moved away to somewhere exotic to 'forget her trauma,' whatever that means. Secondly, how would anyone find this normal. Some homeless child moving in with a librarian after just meeting her. It sounded like something he saw on one of the gross soaps Aunt Petunia watched. He sighed and tried to remember a time when his life wasn't so complicated.

"Come along, Harry." The woman had already moved halfway up the stairs to the next level before noticing Harry was lost in his own thoughts. He quickly picked himself off the floor and moved toward his new warden. Harry was so distracted by the suddenness of what was happening, he forgot his third point.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The house Harry arrived to was nothing like he expected. It was dark and dreary and buried in papers and strange gadgets and gizmos. In fact, it wasn't even a house, it was an apartment that had a wonderful view of a busy street and the building next to it. A set of metal steps along the side of the building was the only way to get inside since it was over a shop. The shop sold sweets of every kind Harry had seen and some he hadn't. Like a rainbow lolly that seemed to change flavor with every lick, or mints that weren't actually mint but rather a rather hot variation on chili. He knew that the smell of sugar would eventually give him a headache but he didn't care too much. Despite the smell, the clutter and the general decor, it felt like a home. Harry felt something in the air that made his lungs feel ten times larger when he took a breath in. It was almost like. . .

"Magic." Harry whipped around to see the librarian standing just behind him, taking her long red hair out of a bun. "Isn't the feeling of a home just magic."

Harry let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. Now he remembered what he was concerned about, what would he do when he had to go to Hogwarts? Just lie to her until he moved out? He didn't know why he was assuming he'd be living with this woman for so long but he had a feeling that this was more than just a 'temporary solution.'

"I'm afraid I don't even know your name, ma'am," said Harry. He probably should have figured that out before incase he had just walked into the lair of a serial kidnapper. She cocked her head and looked at him for a minute before responding.

"My name is Miss Morgan DeNeuf but you will address me as Miss Morgan." She gave Harry a small curtsy and a sarcastic smile. "I will not respond to 'Miss Morgan' or 'ma'am,' after all, I'm not yet an old hag. You'll take care to remember that." She slipped out of her shoes, which looked like something you'd use as a melee weapon. Harry watched as she stalked over to the couch and slumped down in a very unnatural manner for someone who ran a strict library.

"Pick a room upstairs, Harry."

'Upstairs?' It took Harry a minute to find the stairs and found three doors. The one to the left was a large room that had a large bed with a thin layer of dust. It reminded him too much of Dudley's room for him to feel comfortable. The room behind the center door was a small bathroom, probably enough for two to share. The final door Harry opened left him breathless. There wasn't nearly as much space as the first room, but the window alone could make up for it. A large window about as tall as Harry graced the wall across from the bed shoved up in the corner. A shelf sat at the foot of the bed that looked ancient, most of them bound in leather. The window was fogged and had a windowsill that could easily fit Harry, a few pillow, and a black cup of coffee. He smiled and sat down at the bed. A trunk that was slid under the bed frame caught his ankles, and he grimaced in pain. He got on his knees and dug it out to sit it in front of him. He lifted up the chest and found. . . underwear? Not just underwear but dress shirts and slacks along with a large black coat. He froze for a moment. A chill ran down his spine before he rushed downstairs.

"Miss Morgan?" he yelled. He almost fell flat on his face as he stumbled down the stairs. Miss Morgan was laying across the couch with a book in her hand. The glasses she previously wore were gone from her face and any traces of makeup were gone. Her red locks were splayed out in a halo around her head as she raised an eyebrow at Harry.

"What ever is the matter, Harry dear?" she asked. "Surely you're not afraid of spiders. I've seen quite a few while I was up there but to be frank, that was a month ago."

"No, ma'am," he said. "It's just that there's a trunk under the bed of the room I chose." He looked at her expecting some sort of a reaction. Maybe her eyes would widen, and she'd confess her master plan of luring him into the house to replace her dead son or something equally insane. She didn't even look up from her book.

"Is that all?"

"Well inside the trunk are clothes that all seem to fit me." She huffed and set her book down before suddenly straightening much like how Harry saw Dracula rise on the telly.

"Harry, I don't go upstairs very much," she intoned quite crossly, as if the conversation annoyed her. "So if the previous tenant forgot to take something they packed, sucks to them. You should find yourself quite lucky to have come across the trunk since you didn't seem to have anything upon arrival. Now if you don't have any other issues with your living conditions, I would like to remain unbothered until lunch so I can finish my book." Harry shook his head and slunked away. Miss Morgan was such a strange character. For someone who seemed to be a boring librarian, she certainly was full of life. Of course, Harry thought she was old but a nine year old didn't necessarily have a good grasp on how people aged.

Harry trudged back up the stairs and layed down on his bed, trying to process the day as sleep took him.

oOo

Harry slept through lunch. He didn't necessarily mean to but he did. He woke up to Miss Morgan knocking on his door.

"Harry, it is now time for dinner. I will tolerate you sleeping through a meal this once, but I expect you to be punctual to all meals served here. If you live under my roof, I expect you to live with some sort of structure." Harry quickly changed his clothes and hurried out the door. His white shirt and slacks were sharp as a creamy potato soup was placed in front of him by Miss Morgan.

Harry took a few spoonfuls of soup politely before watching Miss Morgan finish her bowl. She offered him a slice of roast, but he declined in favor of making a motion to grab a bread roll. Instead of just grabbing one, he smoothly slid another one into his lap and was hastily folded under a cloth napkin by his other hand. He was quite practiced at swiping food, but one could only take so much. He was merely surviving while others thrived. Harry would be described physically as small and sickly. His normal olive skin was a yellow shade from malnourishment and constant sunburns from his old life.

"Harry." Miss Morgan's voice broke him from his thoughts and he didn't quite meet her eyes. As usual, he locked on to her nose. "Please don't hoard food in your lap, you aren't a squirrel. And for God's sake, take a bit of roast. You look like the wind might pick you up."

Harry's practiced hand shook as he placed the roll on the table. He didn't know if he should be angry or embarrassed or both -- probably both. He lifted his plate and Miss Morgan smirked as she shoveled a small helping of roast onto his plate.

"Although that was quite a neat trick, please don't practice it at the dinner table." A neat trick? Harry never thought of it as a trick, for him it was survival -- to eat or not to eat. Maybe she was onto something. Harry suddenly had an epiphany and excused himself from the table, leaving a cold slice of beef at the table. Miss Morgan just chuckled under her breath and shook her head at his sudden hyperactivity. He ran up to his room and looked for something that he could easily palm in his hand. His first thought was a coin but he simply couldn't find one. He slapped his thigh in frustration when he felt something cold and hard in his pocket. He snatched a small coin that was left in his pants pocket from the previous owner. It wasn't like a coin he'd ever seen. It was copper looking and had strange engravings all over it, but it would do.

For about an hour, he felt the coin in his hand. He memorized every ridge and even its glare in the sun. He tossed it up in the air and between his hands. By the time he was done, he was almost sure it was real bronze. He closed his empty right palm and made the motion of switching his coin from left to right, but he secretly stashed the coin in his palm during the feint. He smiled and spent the rest of the evening repeating this motion, like a rhythm in his heart. Perhaps in another life Harry could've just been a regular kid struggling his way through school and figuring out how to talk to girls or which football team was his favorite but in this life, he was a wizard -- and a famous one at that. But for now he took pleasure in hiding the coin in his hand instead of hiding himself in his cupboard.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Harry spent the next two days on the street corner next to the candy shop practicing various tricks in exchange for the awed faces of the many clients that frequented the shop. Most of them being mothers with their children or gaggles of kids his age. He quickly became the talk of the small street as "the Magician," which wasn't too bad of a name and Harry quite enjoyed it. His hair that he usually left to its own devices was tied back in a leather strap so he could better see his hands. He wore a crisp white button down and black slacks every day he graced his audience. His coin had soon been accompanied by cards and red balls and other various objects, courtesy of Miss Morgan.

Miss Morgan enjoyed Harry's hobby almost as much as he did. She went so far as to suggest new ideas for tricks and even perfect the ones he thought were perfect. Together they made a good duo. One thing that added to the mystery of "the Magician" was Harry's absence at any school. Somehow, Miss Morgan convinced the school boards to allow Harry to be homeschooled. Harry was almost positive that she had to be his guardian for that to work. He didn't care too much because Miss Morgan was an excellent teacher. She somehow made everything fun, despite their mutual distaste for maths, and made sure to assist him whenever the need arose.

"Miss Morgan?" Harry asked one early October morning. They had just finished a lesson on Latin studies.

"Yes, Harry?" she asked. Her glasses were discarded and she was slumped over the arm of the couch reading.

"How did you know my name when we first met?" Miss Morgan scrunched up her face and looked puzzled. She sat up and stared out into space and snapped her head towards Harry in a rather owlish manner.

"Well, that's a silly question. You told it to me, Harry. How else would you suggest I learned your name?" She chuckled as she returned her attention back to her book. "Now if that is all, you have some work to finish."

"You don't really work at a library do you?" Harry asked, he was sure that he had her now. He had been watching Miss Morgan as of late and started noticing strange things about her habits. She never woke up before the library opened, which was 7 o'clock sharp. Her eyes suddenly sparked alight with a red fire Harry had never seen before. It was almost as if two coals were burning in her eye sockets. Her lips raised up in a feral grin; something of a chortle escaped the gap between her perfect incisors.

"Ah," she whispered faintly. "Now we're getting somewhere." She reached into the sleeve of her silk day robe and pulled out a slim, black piece of wood. She twirled in between her tanned, pink fingers with practiced ease.

"You lied to me," Harry said with a tremor in his voice. She rolled her eyes.

"Oh please, Harry. I never _lied_ to you," she tapped her wand to her lip in a thoughtful gesture. "I merely told you what I wanted you to hear. Did I ever say I was a muggle? Or that I worked at the library?"

Harry started to back away as she slunk closer and closer to him. He tripped on the carpet of the landing in his rush to back away from 'Miss Morgan' or whoever she was now. She lashed out her wand with a familiar motion that he was taught by Mr Flamel.

" _Wingardium Leviosa!_ " Suddenly Harry's body was suspended above the hardwood floor that would have left a rather nasty bruise on his elbow. He once again felt the rush of magic that he felt when Flamel cast in his presence. Except this was different. Flamel's magic could be described as the feeling of old parchment on your fingertips or a songbird singing on a dewwy summer's morn. But Miss Morgan's magic felt even older, like the drip of cold water splashing on your forehead from the ceiling of a subterranean cave. Cold and foreboding unlike Flamel's warm, controlled magic; Harry loved it. He felt so entranced by it that he didn't notice when his shoes clicked against the floor.

"Wow," was the only thing that could escape his lips as he slipped out of his trance. He opened his eyes to look at Miss Morgan's soft, concerned face.

"I haven't seen someone react to magic like that in a long time, Harry. Has it happened before?"

Harry was ready to spill his secrets to his guardian; Flamel's name on the tip of his tongue, but he paused. If Morgan was just now revealing herself to be a witch, maybe Harry should wait to fold the cards in his own hand.

"Yes, Miss Morgan," he said, childlike innocence coating his words like a sweet, tacky syrup. "Although, I really should ask you a question."

"You don't need permission to speak, child. What is it that troubles you?"

"The other children who flock around me when I'm doing my tricks, they're wizards too?"

"And witches, Harry. Let it be known that some of the most legendary magic wielders in history were female," Miss Morgan spoke as she raised her brow conspiratorially. "In fact, many believe that Magick herself is female. And now that we've had this little chat, we can begin."

oOo

Harry's first magic lesson was quite a shock for starters. His time with Flamel, while exciting, was also very structured and in a familiar and comfortable setting. Miss Morgan, on the other hand, was a force to be reckoned with during a lesson plan. She cleared the main sitting area of the apartment and muttered a few words that Harry couldn't quite pick up. Then, she snatched a tea mug and threw it across the room. Harry tensed, expecting the sound of ceramic shattering against the floor. However at the very last moment, a silver streak of light shot from Miss Morgan's wand and struck the mug, leaving only a blackboard in its place. Tucking her wand behind her ear and taking up a big piece of chalk, she the rough outline of a human body.

"This is your magical core," she announced, tapping the slate with a chipped red nail. Harry meekly raised his hand.

"I thought that the magic core resided by your heart," he spoke, trying to recall what he learned in his previous lessons. A great cackle spirted from her mouth as she lamely tried to hold it in.

"Now who gave you that silly notion?" She waved him off with a sigh. "Your magic isn't really _your_ magic. The world around you is full of magic that you can draw on, mostly in nature and the raw parts of Mother Earth. This is why most potion ingredients are grown wild and harvested by hand, or why wands are made of wood and not plastic. Magic can reside in anything natural. Now you must know, not all being can _wield_ magic. Imagine that your soul, or mind, is your muscle to use it.

"For example, I willed the mug into defying mortal laws to become into another object at my convenience. My strong mind and soul allowed me to do such things. Magic is a force that some say was left after the defeat of the goddess of creation, much like how the universe is what is left of the death of the previous one. We can use the aftermath via our strong souls to do whatever we wish."

Harry's brain throbbed. Goddess? The previous universe? The only thing that she said that made sense was using the mind to channel magic. Harry looked down at his gloved hands. He hated the electricity burns that patterned up his forearms. He had taken to a pair of black, silk gloves that went past his elbows to cover them. He hadn't done magic since the hospital. And before that. . .

"Harry, are you okay?" He snapped to attention. A feeling that he felt before, when Mr Doctor smiled at him, when Mr Flamel rested his hand on his shoulder when he completed a spell pattern correctly, and now when Miss Morgan was holding his hand. She traced the scars with with her thumb and a single tear traced down her face.

"My gods, Harry," she gasped. "I have seen them before, but not like this. What happened?"

Harry's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, 'not like this?' What's wrong with them?"

"I think it's time you see an old friend of mine."

oOo

Harry's trip to the leaky cauldron was eventful to say the least. Leaping through a fireplace is not something one should take lightly. So when Miss Morgan casually tossed in what Harry recognized as floo powder from his studies with Flamel, he was quite anxious. Miss Morgan eyed him suspiciously as he took a step back from the roaring green flames.

"Have you ever floo traveled before, Harry?" she asked with a coy grin. Harry numbly shook his head.

"I read about it once," he said. "It seems a bit dangerous."

"Oh please, child. It's quite safe. Much safer than those muggle automobiles. Here, I'll go first." She stepped into the green flames and shouted: "Diagon Alley!"

The flames roared up around her silk robes and in a puff of green smoke, she was gone. Harry waved the smoke away from his face as he gagged on the smell of sulfur and copper that gave the powder its greenish hue. He grabbed a handful and tossed it into the smoldering remains of their fire. It burst to life and he shouted the words 'Diagon Alley' and took off in a dead sprint to his destination.

On the other side, strong hands grabbed him by the pits of his arms and kept his nose from smashing into the ground. Harry peered at the surprisingly weak looking man who was attached to those hands. His eyes were the most striking in their glazed-silver tone. He looked like an owl, one whose eyes didn't move but whose head swiveled all the way around. Harry wondered if it could.

"Careful, my boy," the man said with a smirk. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, however, you might hurt yourself." Harry wrinkled his nose a bit. He was no one's _boy_ and he was no _freak_.

"Harry, this is Mister Ollivander," she exchanged a meaningful gaze with Ollivander. "He is an expert wand maker and of wand lore." Harry's eyes got wide as he nervously fidgeted with his gloves. He had developed a few hand ticks since the incident that he was learning to control. He would stroke his ring finger on his right hand with his left thumb or bite the knuckle on his index finger, whichever one was bothering him at the moment.

"Have you ever used a wand before, Harry?" Ollivander seemed to already know the answer to this question in the way he asked, but Harry would humor him. Harry just shook his head.

"No? You've never used a wand before?" He furrowed his eyebrows. "Miss DeNeuf described wand burns on your hand. I would like to see them." Harry looked to Miss Morgan, but she only had a stern face for Harry in return. He sighed and slipped off his black gloves. Ollivander's eyes widened.

"I-" Ollivander stuttered. "This is more than a wand burn, my lady. Harry, what did you do?" Miss Morgan held up a hand to him.

"Now, Garrick, young Harry here hasn't been too forward with his story since I found him-"

"I hurt someone." It's ironic that all it can take to silence two tempers butting heads like bulls is the smallest whisper. And that's what came out of Harry. He almost couldn't hear himself when he said it. All he could feel were the tears that fell down his face. But his words burned the ears of the other two in the room. Miss Morgan gasped for air a bit before she finally could make proper sound.

"W-what? What did you say Harry?" The boy in question merely peered up at the elder witch though fluffy black bangs with his piercing green eyes.

"I hurt him. I hurt him because he was angry. Because he lied to me. I didn't want to be hit any more. I didn't want to be _hit_ any more!" His body shuddered with sobs. "He left me and I didn't know what to do. So I went back to them. I went back and I hurt them. And now they can't hit me any more."

"Oh, child." Miss Morgan fell to her knees and pulled the shaking boy into her chest. He collapsed into her, feeling his hot tears mix with her own. He felt her blood red hair tickle his skin and he felt the gaze of Mr Ollivander on his neck. He pulled away and she gave him a watery smile.

"We can talk about that later. But for right now, we need to know if you used a wand, Harry," Ollivander's soft voice asked.

"I don't think it was," he said. "It was only meant for practice."

"Practice?" Miss Morgan cut in. "Practice for what?"

"My spells, my wand waving." Miss Morgan pulled back.

"You had a teacher before, didn't you?" she asked, her voice bordered on frustrated. "And they didn't tell you the dangers of using magic through a wand used outside of supervision?"

"I don't think he knew," Harry muttered. Ollivander sidled up next to him and gestured with his hand. Harry offered his left hand, and Ollivander took it. He traced the scars before muttering to himself.

"Hawthorn. . . seems old. . . dragon heartstring- no. . . this is older. . . most peculiar."

"What is it, Garrick?" Miss Morgan looked surprisingly flustered at the mention of dragon heartstrings, did she not like dragons? Harry saved that detail in his brain for later.

"It seems that this wand was designed for a grieving wizard," he said. "Hawthorn, being a wood best for a complex wizard with a split heart going through a period of trauma. And dragon heartstrings being adept for healing, but equally proficient in curses and the Dark Arts. I hope to see you again Mr Potter; you are an interesting wizard. Most interesting indeed. . ."

 **Hey! Thanks for sticking around. I'm A Boy with a Pen and I know it has been a long time, but I was going through old dead stories I was writing and I found this one again. All the passion and ideas I had rushed back to me, so I treat you with a chapter that's a little longer than ones I've written in the past. Thanks for those of you who stuck around after almost 6 months. . . That's way to long to go without posting and I'm really sorry to those of you who saw potential in this and left thinking I was dead. I'm back now and I'm hoping to see you through at least first year!**


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